Lyska (Beware!)

[Natalie Nessus]

Chick Singer

I like it when chick singers get pissed
I like paying to get my ass kicked
by a real bitch of a woman on stage
one who would suck a severed cock before
selling out
one who knows how to be quiet,
but likes it loud.
I like tough ass-kickin’ lesbo chick singers
who lose control and make it all make sense.
My chick singer knows that there are no friends in show biz
just enemies out to rip you up
and fans there out to tear you apart
so you might as well piss a few people off.
I want my chick singer to hit me
like a steam locomotive,
I want real explosives.
I want a militant three chord
blow-my-amp-up fuck from her;
the kind that leaves your legs hands lips and tongue sore from her;
the kind that leaves you wanting more
with no excuses until she wakes up in a cold sweat from a dream of you
and utters the last words you’d think you’d ever hear from her -
“I love you”
because she’s tough enough to tell you how she feels
wanting every inch of you real
the way your body was meant to be
up against her while she straps you close like her guitar
because that’s all you really are
but sometimes she loves you less
and she’ll tell you first that people aren’t for playing like instruments
that people are for loving or hating and
either way they make a pretty song
but the thing is,
she’ll tell you we’ve got the word “pretty”
wrong.
My chick singer is pretty because she makes you think.
She’s not the scotch or whiskey,
she’s the reason you drink.
Her love is something none of us can touch
We just brush it with a guitar pick.
Because she isn’t as tough as her voice and
muscles make her seem.
She’s no pretty hate machine.
She’s pissed off because people smear dirt on her perfect love,
and I want to add water to the dirt
and make mud,
then wipe her slate clean.
I want to cut back her bark
which is worse than her bite,
and touch the soft green.
My militant lesbo chick singer will fly down on the back of her indie pop label,
and take me away from here
to a place where it’s okay
to be angry and queer.
Because I’m sick of representing the homosexual population.
I just want to eat organic food with the woman I love,
and I want a song about the taste
of my blood
after we break up,
and she finds another fan to rescue from
everyday life.
I want a woman who loves me enough
to not have to be nice.

 

[Natalie Nessus]

Recipie for Red

You are unfathomable,
and I think constantly of infinity.
You shine visibly,
so people walking on the street can see it
can’t help but see you -
glowing next to me.
You radiate fantastic white noise
in
visible
form.
You are the original reborn muse.
There must be uncountable poems and lakes named after you.
Water serves you right.
I know that there are unpronounceable seas in Europe emulating you,
dark and deep blue -
surface shining
and surface blinding
in bright weather;
that kind of lake a couple stumbles on to
and needs to settle down on.
God, the world would love to rest itself upon you,
needs to build a white house beside you,
needs to sail a small boat on the surface of you,
needs to filter you out and love that you are full of life
in the form of tiny neon fish -
swishing along the bottom of you.
The world would love to rest on top of you
if they only knew what I do.

I see you sway.
You sway like a tree,
but lose no life in movement.
I rock to the push and pull of your body,
that needs only the love of itself moving
needs only fuel for fire,
fuel for fire,
fuel for fire,
to keep the coldest burning coals buried beneath your skin.

You are a flesh covered kiln,
and pottery in earth-tones emerge from between your ribs
that flex and expand
flex and expand from the art you hold in –
sculpture your very heart pounded in every curve.
Your blood glazes every turn,
every turn of soft brown clay that makes beautiful art.
Beautiful art,
like you,
is just crafted that way.

You were crafted with the color green in mind -
green entwined.
Lush forests dedicate their fires to you,
bring down their life in one blaze of glory,
one taste of inferno,
all for you.
Does anyone know why life would sacrifice itself
would burst into ignition
would raise a branch or arm or head to lightening?

I do.

I do.

I do.

You are brown, green, and blue,
and I am red hot.

 

[Natalie Nessus]

You are brown, green, and blue,
and I am red hot

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

[Natalie Nessus]

Dpn't go to Florida and Leave Me

This morning you went to Florida and left me here.
I want to be okay.
I slept in, and when I woke up, I brushed my teeth,
washed the oil from my face, and sat with little kitty Baxter for an hour.
She was glad you were gone.
You act devious like a favorite cat.
She likes being the only cat.
I made toast with nutritional yeast on it,
and sat in front of the tv.
I watched the weather channel to see how warm it was in Florida, but I couldn't remember where in that poop-shaped state you were.
It didn't look big when the weather guy covered the whole thing with his hand.
Funny, if he was god, Florida would have experienced total darkness until his hairy monkey hand moved.

I thought he could have reached into your city and picked you up by the collar like when the boy was shrunk by the TV rays in Willy Wonka.
His mom picked him right up and put him in her purse.
I then wished the weather guy was holding a Chanel bag.
You wouldn't have minded that so much.
It wasn't warm anywhere in Florida, not warm enough to merit you leaving me for some dumb geckos and gay hot spots.
I'm sure you were swimming laps as happy as saved seal as I thought that.

The day was rough.
My days off are always spent with you.
I left the house to maybe buy a cd or walk around uptown, and my lack of direction led to one hundred bucks spent in an hour.
I went out of control. You are the sensible one.
You would have told me that two cd's are enough for anyone in one day.
I didn't need Rupaul's entire body of work in one afternoon.

I walked to my work in the cold. My friends were there working, making lattes and mochas for people who had actual direction that day.
I wished that it was me working.
I needed set tasks.
I needed a to-do list.
Moms and girlfriends make the world turn around.
I didn't have any guidance, so I just sat there.
I sat there and fidgeted.
Where do my hands go when you aren't holding them?

My friend Cham told me I was a little pathetic.
So what?
I like being pathetic. I mean, I don't know anything different.
Cham made sure I ate dinner. She also let me stay in her guest bedroom at her apartment.
I just laid in the bed.
I laid there for six hours.
I didn't sleep.
I hate Florida.
I hate oranges, and Mickey Stupid Mouse, and
Key West, and geckos, and weather people,
and sunshine.
That hatred kept me awake.
Florida doesn't love you.

Florida doesn't tell you that you are cute.

Flordia certainly does not make you dinner.

Fuck Florida.

Fuck Florida and all of the sunshiney -
Vitamin C - shuffleboard bullshit it stands for.

Fuck it up its enema ridden ass.

It is a blackhole.

I flop over without you.

Come back.

 

[Natalie Nessus]

Call of the Wild

My bed suspects you arent coming back,
making your side, the left side, severely uncomfortable.
I reassure a heavy mattress with two pioneer arms
Lewis and Clark
wandering a brave new world of sheets and blankets
piled to resemble a body
your body is missing
Habeus corpus then says I have nothing on you
just empty air I point into.
It knows your body was so easy to make love to,
toss into your body
whispering dirty words so long they form
a hum like the rumble of an avalanche chasing Buddhists off a Tibetan mountain,
words to make the most pristine garden well erupt into a fountain of sin to lick the sky with one pure geyser before falling back underground.
This has meaning. I always held you in the present.
I had to, being no curator for frontier women,
no mistress of brass relics to polish,
sad-faced at your long absence while watching out a dusty window
praying for your safe return.
No, you?re aren?t coming back from war.
You?re coming back to it.
Guns and bayonets hot stabbing eyes with palms of hot death landing on your ass,
juggling bones, two pelvic ones crashing like ships and icebergs.
You were the iceberg
you sunk the unsinkable
Henry and June fucked like this
Gertrude stein and Alice Toklas screwed like this
Napoleon and Josephine screwed like this
and you are shorter
captain my captain, drawing blood and biting down when blood was needed.
I pull you up tits together for the most merciless fuck this war has ever seen
oh the humanity
grunts and cries of grueling battle
eyes lashing tongue smashing flesh biting cunt sucking hand to hand combat
humping our way through trench warfare
many a good soldier fell slick and expired
while America?s eyes are downcast
to the brutality of girls in love.
After all,
lady liberty doesn?t slam a few four horsemen
and fuck until independence day brings real fireworks,
but, I think that torch may burn for a sexy stone butch girl across the sea,
with a heart like a beacon to pilgrims like you
my arms wrap around the wilderness she watches over,
and pull them up to my chin
lesbo, carpet muncher, muff diver, dyke dyke dyke
all seem inadequate when you?re covered with your lover?s cum
we were wet and made holy
you were Shiva pulling happy arms around my hips
I was Buddha as full of your body as my own
You were god or his only daughter manifesting in visits
to submerge my head into liquid immortality
so maybe you were a carpenter
you were a rogue, a welder, and a smith
you were a pathmaker who left me for peace,
adventure is never kind to the frontier.
natives are the first to go.
I protest with cunt, arms, and fire
hissing like wind in the wild
like owls call and wolves howl.
We were wolves once at war taking salt off skin off flesh off bone
I know there was some point you called this body home
but Lewis and Clark weren?t looking for home eithe

 

[Natalie Nessus]

Lyska

http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/3513/

 

[Natalie Nessus]

too tough for some I think

I want a woman who loves me enough
to not have to be nice

I think she has a way